After the Rain Has Fallen
by SpaceCowboy
Summary: Complete. One-shot. And as always... Aramis whump. Marsac's grave has just been filled. Aramis has just forgiven his captain, and the rain continues to fall. This short story explores the moments right after these events, and how Aramis decided to continue living his life despite what he'd just learned, just did, and just told Treville.


**After the Rain Has Fallen**

* * *

Heavy rain chilled the hot dry tombstones, yet Aramis feared there wasn't enough rain in all of France to wash away his bitter grief. His… gut-gnawing guilt.

Dripping down his forehead like tears from a disappointed god, the deluge washed over him, seeped through his clothes and skin, flowed in through his bones and past his emotional defences toward his very soul, trying to fill the empty space where once a friend resided. He'd left Marsac's grave only a short time ago, and not enough time had passed that he didn't still feel the graveyard's wet earth beneath his boots, nor enough that he could not still hear Treville's boots slogging through mud as he walked away in the falling rain.

Aramis's hat rested on the hilt of his sword, doing nothing but catch raindrops. He'd neither the strength nor will to put it on his head and protect himself from getting soaked. After what he'd done, what he'd have to live with till his end of days, Aramis felt he did not deserve such protection. He deserved this downpour. He deserved the cold that would invade his body, and the fever that would come soon after. He deserved it all, despite what he'd just told his captain. For what would happen how? What of the future?

He didn't know what had made him finally move, to finally walk away from the ghosts and fresh dug grave of someone he once considered his closest friend. He just knew he was walking on cobblestone not muddy ground, and on legs that felt twice as heavy as they should, and walking to face the consequences he'd never let anyone see him suffer.

From a tiny recess in a tiny corner of his mind, a quiet obstinate voice told him to turn left, toward the _Wren, w_ here he could drown his pain and grief in wine and noise.

 _No, that is Athos's safe harbour. Not mine. I shall return to the garrison._

But no, he didn't want the embrace of the smothering friendship his comrades would force upon him, nor the protection of the garrison's four walls. He yearned solitude. So he let his feet take him wherever they felt the need to carry him, which turned out to be through the night-dreary streets of Paris slick and shiny with rain.

"Watch where you're going," grumbled a man who's shoulder brushed against Aramis's.

A whispered half-hearted apology died on Aramis's lips. But where the words would not come, anger did. Thump. Thump. Thump, thump thump. His heartbeat quickened as if someone had dropped the glove to start a duel. He didn't know where it was coming from, but it was easier to focus on anger than grief so he exhaled slowly then charged at the man now walking away.

The ground hurled toward them as they fell hard to the soggy ground, both of them forcing angry grunts between gritted teeth.

"Get off me! What are you doing?" The man rolled onto his back, his momentum flipping Aramis over to land him in a puddle of mud.

But Aramis had no words, only anger. He pushed to his feet, jaw tense enough to almost crack molars and shoved the man back to the ground. He swung his leg back, ready to bruise and break this man's muscle and bone when arms tightened around his torso.

 _Ah, another one. I didn't see you._

Grunting with frustration, Aramis threw his head back and heard the crack of bone. It sounded so loud so close to his ears... raw and painful. It sounded satisfying. And Aramis took that moment where his assailant released him to grab his nose, to yank the knife from his belt and turn back on him. But when he jabbed his knife forward, he did not expect to feel the sharp twinge of a blade slicing into his own skin and muscle.

Aramis clutched his side where a blade rested under his ribs. Blood rushed from his head, leaving behind cobwebs and blurry vision. The man in front of him was laughing, a harsh resounding chortle which pierced through the muffled sound of blood rushing in his ears.

The ground came at him faster than he could brace for and he never actually registered landing. Some time later, he awoke alone in the street to the realization he'd once again used violence to quash his pain. This neither angered nor surprised him. The thought simply idled in his mind without import until the stinging heat of a knife jabbed under his ribs mollified it completely.

Groaning, Aramis rolled onto his side to give himself room to pull the knife out. An anguished grunt echoed in the empty street when the blade finally slipped out of its hole. The blood hadn't time to dry, or it was still wet from the rain, Aramis didn't know. Either way, he rolled onto his back, let his head fall into the mud and let the wet, red blood flow as he studied the dusty black sky looming over him. It hadn't been long since he'd passed out. The rain still fell and his friend's dying face endured like a nightmare frozen in his memory. That exact moment when every muscle in Marsac's face slackened, his eyelids froze mid-blink, and his lips parted once last time to release his last breath.

A portrait in his mind. Never moving. Never changing.

To remember Marsac laughing again, talking, enjoying life, would be easier said than done. Aramis had experience with death, more than most. His mother. Adele. Soldiers and comrades. So he knew no amount of concentration would bring his friend's better visage back to life. It would be like trying to calm a storm with nothing but your mind.

No matter how hard he concentrated on Marsac's laughter after being told an inappropriate joke, or his friend's eyes alit with excitement when a new pistol arrived at the garrison, the memory would be fleeting, quickly erased by the image of the pistol in Aramis's hand that he'd used to kill his friend. He'd always see that pistol frozen in the moment he'd squeezed the trigger to kill Marsac. He'd see it whenever he loaded it or took aim on another victim. Whenever he heard a shot ring out, he'd remember his friend's body falling to the floor.

Something was always falling. Snow on Savoy. His heart for unattainable women. Soldiers on a field. Tears and blood on a battlefield. Even rain on Marsac's grave. From time to time he even felt himself falling into a world replete with violence and friends lost.

Always falling.

So Aramis decided to get up.

Late into the night, or early before dawn, the streets of Paris were empty. Even the men involved in his skirmish were gone. Aramis ran a hand around his waist searching for his weapons and purse. They remained still attached. Whoever those men were, they hadn't wanted to rob him. It was a small grace. But then again, it was Aramis who had instigated the brawl.

Perhaps nothing would have happened had he not lashed out? If hadn't let the emptiness inside him control his actions, control his mind. In retrospect, it was easier to let that happen than fight it. He was a grown man, he could always handle the consequences. His twinging side reminded him of them now, and he looked down at the slit in his leather doublet still wet with blood.

"Not that bad," he said. "Probably more painful than it looks. I've endured worse."

His first few steps proved him wrong. Deep lancing pain shot across his abdomen, down into his leg and he stumbled until he fell into a wall. Breathless, a cold sweat mixed with the rain dripping down his forehead and he was forced to rest a few moments before pushing off and dragging his body further down the street.

He'd no fear of his attackers returning, supposing they'd gotten what they wanted. Or had they even wanted anything? What had happened? But these thoughts were inconsequential. It was over. Aramis was alone with only the rain and his solitude to accompany him back to the garrison.

He knew that's where he wanted to go now. Needed to go. He'd have to stitch this wound, no matter how small. Hide the wound from existence, close it tight and stop any more of his insides from oozing out for the world to see. He couldn't have that.

 _Can't have that._

But at least the pain gave him something to think about other than what had brought him out wandering the streets in the first place. He watched as steam rose from the cobblestones and muck, watched it swallow his boots into it's murky gossamer, then gave up trying to watch his footing. Instead, he focused on the dark rain-slick walls lining Paris's streets, and how they merged in the distance like a single point on the landscape. Somewhere out there lay the garrison.

"Not far I hope," he said. Rain fell into his mouth wherein he swallowed, trying to coat his parched throat with something other than his own slow rising bile.

"Too much time in the rain. I'm bound to get sick."

But it didn't matter. Marsac was gone. He'd killed him. And truths had come to light, good and bad, that he had to now live with. Soldiering was a tricky business, and Aramis understood its complications. He'd said as much to his captain. Sacrifices were a necessity. A job even. His duty as a Musketeer meant dying for the King should the need arise. And he'd do it without hesitation. It was the sacrificing of others that left a heavy lump in his gut. Who was he to decide who lived or died?

"Perhaps that is why I am not Captain."

He trudged forward until the looming gates of the garrison appeared in the distance. Its stone walls harboured his friends, protected their horses and now kept secrets he'd never be able to forget.

His walk slowed. The ground between him and this supposed beacon of bravery suddenly seemed thicker and heavier. Mud clung to Aramis's boots without inhibition, making each progressive step forward more difficult, and even harder for his leg which now dragged due to the shooting pain from the stab wound.

The sweltering heat from the day still clung to the air. It hadn't been washed away by the moon or the rain, and made his sweat cling to his skin like a thick pasty glue, his shirt stick to his back, his pants to his legs, and his doublet had become an even greater burden on his shoulders. Aramis felt all of this more than ever now that he could see the garrison.

But closer he ambled, despite what lay ahead for him. Closer to those who'd ask him questions… Where had he been? How was he doing?

Closer to the platitudes… Everything happens for a reason. Time would heal…

"Rubbish."

Time didn't heal. It encouraged the lingering and festering of bad memories, nourished anger and resentment. Time would only squeeze his soul, mould his god's given grace into something wretched and hard like the stone walls of the garrison. And _too_ much time would open the drawbridge holding in his desires and fantasies and thus free his violent tendencies.

But what would his comrades think of him? He couldn't let them see him falling apart. See him falling. They'd only wish to interfere. And interference meant sharing. Aramis didn't want to share. What was inside was inside for a reason. And if it came out, he'd never get it stuffed back in.

 _Yes,_ he thought. _Like the garrison walls I will protect myself._

So he decided, as he stared through the driving rain at the honourable and loyal garrison, that he'd tie his sash extra tight next morning on parade to staunch his wound's pain. Smile more often than not, make jokes and be his irreverent self. He'd stand at attention with the others, no matter the strain on his body. He'd ride wherever they told him to ride, fight whomever they needed him to fight. He'd swallow against the tightness in his chest, keep a smile firmly in place. They'd never know. They'd never see his pain.

At least, not until after the rain had stopped falling.

* * *

 ** _Finis._**


End file.
